Memories in White
by Draconian Elflord
Summary: Roger takes a minute to muse on life in Paradigm, the people that live there, his role there, and the truth he seeks. Quite angst if you look at it one way. Roger's POV to the people of Paradigm, and humanity itself. Please RR, but don't be cruel.


Roger: I'm taking charge of things here. This idiot doesn't own me or my machine or Paradigm or Big O or anything. Anyone who says different is as good as dead *leaves the room as quickly and mysteriously as he appeared*  
  
Elflord: *@.@* *sweatdrops, very frightened look on face* Uhh . . . thanks, Roger. As you can probably already tell, this is in Roger's POV. Just a little thing I whipped up when I felt desperate to create. Just a few author's notes before we get started. One, I don't take plot as orthodox. Most of the plot I keep as I see it support my fic, but I am not afraid to revise other parts of the plot to better support the fic. Please don't flame for plot reasons.  
  
Oh, and one last thing . . . I have SEEN Big O . . . but only a few episodes of it. I've researched, but there still may be holes in my knowledge of the anime. Please try not to flame me too bad if things are a little OOC. I hope not, but I may have made a mistake. Also, anything you can tell me in a review that would expand my understanding would greatly help. Thanks.  
  
Memories in White  
  
Once I heard a sentence . . . The truth shall set you free.  
  
Ha! Free? More like ignorance will set you free. Believe me. I've seen it right in front of me every day of my life.  
  
For isn't that, in the end, what the all of us are? Lies cannot be truth, no matter how pretty you may make them.  
  
Are we not all simply shadows, simply images, pantomimes, farces of ourselves? What . . . and who . . . are we all . . . really?  
  
But it seems I'm being insolent. You must excuse it of me. It's a terrible habit of mine. I haven't quite the etiquette most expect of me.  
  
Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
I'm the shadow of you. You are nothing to me, and I am nothing to you, exactly the way it should be. I'm the person you want to forget about. And I'm so glad that's easy for you. It makes things so much easier for me. I'm the stranger on the subway, standing in the shadows. Just pass on by. You're not even sure I'm there at all. I am you like you refuse to imagine, refuse to dream. There's nothing about me that's of interest to you, and naught about you that would interest me.  
  
That's the way Paradigm works. It's such a fitting name for our dear city, isn't it? Ideal, stereotype, model, example, pattern, archetype, prototype . . . is that not what we are? We are the ideal people. Without memory, without past, without time . . . without anything. Obedient, we take everything as we are told. And we're happy with that.  
  
See? Ignorance IS bliss. Human beings . . . we are so predictable. Vice over Virtue, Ignorance over Truth, Greed over Generosity, Gluttony over Moderation, Emotion over Logic . . . we take the easy way out, the path of least pain and resistance. It's of our nature to be evil.  
  
I guess that means Malthus is right after all. Sorry, Paine. You were off a few steps.  
  
Bliss. Isn't it simply bliss, to be able to live without past or a future, without memories of our lives, without ourselves, without anything? Our present to use and abuse, all for us, all happiness, a gilding gold masking the rotting disease beneath it. Ahh, such bliss, isn't it just wonderful?  
  
I want bliss too, you know.  
  
Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
I'm just the whisper of a dream. You never knew I was there until I am long gone. You knew of me from the impressions I leave on you, and not what you thought of me.  
  
Oh, what bliss I have, these sleepless nights. Insomnia is quite like Amnesia if you know it. I think it's okay to say, in a way totally unlike you, I'm just like you. You forget, living only the present. I wallow in the memory, forsaking the present. You are sheep, unable to think for yourselves. I am a wolf, unable to think like you.  
  
Somewhere, I once read that all of us have a purpose in this life. My purpose, or so I'm told, is your protection. I am deemed your guardian, your savior and your keeper. I, above you all, am left to dream, left to ponder. I alone was left to stand on the outside, looking in, always the observer.  
  
Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
I'm the best, the worst of you, all your amnesic dreams and nightmares all come true at once. I'm one of you, all of you, seen from without, inverted . . . wrong. I'm the mirror, the truth you so hate me for. I'm the thing you always knew existed, and yet shun your eyes from, denying that I'm everywhere around you.  
  
I'm the roses with the thorns, pain in the presence of the greatest beauties. Like a black spot on the glass, you can never tell where I am; outside or inside. Nor do you care; I must be defeated for the sake of the boundless reflective kingdom, never seeing out or in.  
  
And in the end, I'm exactly where you are. A white amnesia facing a white amnesia, you are on the inside unwilling to look out. I am on the outside trying to see in. Neither of us sees each other, or really, if we look into our heart of hearts, desire to.  
  
So what DO I desire, you ask?  
  
Truth, my friends. A certain aching within me craves it, lusts after it, obsesses it, to quench these burning flames of question and doubt eating away at me from the inside out. Truth, friends . . . truth shall set you free. Hypocritical bastard that I am, I encircle myself in my own musings, come back to believe the one belief I find the most ignorant of all.  
  
A white memory facing a white memory, somewhere, my salvation lies waiting for me to see it in front of my eyes. In the mist of yearning and hunger, I have blinded mine own eyes.  
  
And now it's gone again . . .  
  
The truth . . . will it set me free . . . or will it imprison me?  
  
No seeing inside . . . trapped on the outside . . . and in the end I am you . . .  
  
Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
The name's Smith . . . Roger Smith.  
  
THE END 


End file.
